


Bad Boys Get Spanked

by PosseMagnet



Series: Bad Boys Get Spanked [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam, M/M, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 03:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8472874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PosseMagnet/pseuds/PosseMagnet
Summary: The first time Dean spanked Sam was after he caught Sam with some other kids, smoking behind a convenience store. Sam was twelve. Nine brisk hits, delivered over stiff, hand-me-down jeans. The motel room smelled like spoiled milk and spaghetti-o's. Sam was hard after the second hit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This series is going to be all about pain play, along with other bdsm themes. It's undiluted Wincest, so if that bugs you, run. 
> 
> Title is from the song Bad Boys Get Spanked by the Pretenders. 
> 
> Thanks go to spectacularsammy for beta'ing this and brainstorming with me. I love that big, beautiful brain of yours. 
> 
> Comments and kudos feed the muse. Kink suggestions/prompts are welcome, though I don't promise to use all of them.

The first time Dean spanked Sam was after he caught Sam with some other kids, smoking behind a convenience store. Sam was twelve.

Dean hit him nine times. He was yelling at Sam the entire time, and to this day Sam couldn't tell you what Dean was shouting about, but he could vividly recollect each strike. Nine brisk hits, delivered over stiff, hand-me-down jeans. The motel room smelled like spoiled milk and spaghetti-o's.

Sam was hard after the second hit.

He came after the seventh.

\---

After that Sam got into trouble a lot.

He didn't smoke anymore, because it tasted awful, but still, he found ways.

It was easiest to get Dean to spank him if he started an argument with their dad. Sam would throw some sarcasm his way, and they'd be off. Eventually, John would storm out of the house in a huff to go pour some bourbon over the fire of his anger.

Then Sam would turn his attitude on Dean. Eventually, things would come to blows, and it was the easiest thing in the world to end up on his stomach. And then another few words aimed at just the right places in Dean's armor, and Dean was smacking his ass hard. It ground Sam's rigid cock into the floor with every strike. God help him, but it was fucking amazing.

As he got older, it was harder and harder to hide the come stains.

\---

Sam didn't have a name for these thoughts. These urges.

Then, Dean gave him one.

They were on a job. John was busy on a case, so he sent Dean to Arizona to clean up a nest of vampires.

Dean didn't want to take Sam, but Dean had always had trouble saying no to his little brother.

Sam took a few beatings and hard hits before they were through. He wasn't asking for them, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy them. Just a little.

They were in the Impala, and Sam was half hard, surreptitiously pressing his fingers into the hot, throbbing lump of a bruise nestled on his jaw, and Dean was yelling at him again.

It was all about how he needed to be more careful, and let Dean kill some of the monsters once in a while, and to stay down after he gets beat bloody.

"What the _fuck_ , Sam?" Dean rages. "You some kind of masochist, or something?"

Sam was pretty sure he knew what the word meant, but he looked it up when he got home.

Knowing what he was felt a lot like falling.

Sam was seventeen.

\---

A year later, Sam told John that he was leaving them. He was going to college. Stanford. Full ride.

Any other parent would have been over the moon.

John Winchester just shoved his finger in his sons face and told him that if he stepped out of the door he better not fucking come back.

Sam made it a mile up the road before he heard the Impala rumble up behind him.

"Get in the car, jackass," came Dean's voice.

"I'm not going home, Dean."

Dean didn't want to take him home.

Dean drove him to the bus station, so he could buy a ticket. The next bus didn't leave until morning, so they went to a motel.

Dean was inconsolable, so Dean yelled and drank. They shared a bottle of Jack and argued late into the night.

Eventually, Dean got so pissed that he couldn't talk Sam into staying, he ripped his belt off and turned his baby brother over his knee.

Sam was tall enough and old enough to put up a fight; he might even have won. But he didn't. He needed this. He needed it one more time before he left; one more time before he could never go home again.

So, when Dean grabbed the collar of his flannel shirt and slung Sam over his knees, Sam pretended to be too drunk to put up much of a fight, but he wasn't.

That time, Dean struck him 18 times. Sam wasn't sure if Dean picked the number on purpose: one hit for every year that Sam had turned Dean's life inside out, or if that's just how long it took for Dean to exhaust his ire.

It didn't matter.

That time, he knew what was coming, and he was hard before Dean ever pulled him into his lap.

That time it was everything he could do to not rut his swollen cock against his brothers legs.

And that time, Dean used his belt.

Sam lasted 16 lashes before he came. For the last two, he watched, panting, in the mirror across the room.

Dean didn't look pissed anymore. He looked rapturous.

His pupils were dilated, the smallest sliver of brilliant green showing. He was flushed, his freckles stood out from his normally pale skin like beacons. His plump bottom lip was sucked into his mouth, ghost white around the edges where he’d been biting it hard enough to push blood out of the area.

Once the sound of the final snap of the belt had landed, Dean pushed Sam off his lap and surged upright. The angry look from before was back on his face. The only evidence that some other look had lain across his features were his spit slick lips, the bottom lip dark, and engorged, and printed with neat little teeth marks.

He hurried into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Sam had been sitting on the floor where Dean dumped him, but it was only when he heard the shower turn on and Dean slip under the water that he got up and changed out of his come-soaked boxer briefs and jeans.

He was rolling the dirty pants up and putting them in his pack when he heard the unmistakable sound of Dean jerking off in the shower.

Sam wondered if it was possible for him to fall any further.

\---

Sam did well in college. But his mind never left that spanking behind. Partly because it felt so good, but also because it was the first time he realized, maybe Dean also enjoyed the spankings.

It was too much to hope for, foolish in so very, very many ways, but Sam held onto that hope.

He wanted more. Needed more. Jess was pretty good. She'd spank him, hurt him, but it was never quite enough. Jess was too small, too delicate. She didn't have it in her.

It was Dean's clever, calloused hands that Sam imagined on him while he was jerking off.

Then, four years after he started at Stanford, long after he'd given up on ever seeing Dean again, a dark figure with rough hands and an even rougher voice showed up in his living room.

They grapple.

Sam would know those hands anywhere.

They're the hands he imagined every time he closed his eyes. He pictured them on his cock. In his hair. On him. Inside of him.

"Dean?" he gasped in the dark.

\---

Sam is inconsolable for a while.

Jess is dead. It's his fault, and his heart is unmoored.

So, time finds them in a motel room, somewhere up north. Sam is having one of his bad days, so he drinks in the cliche pain-numbing way the Winchesters are so fond of.

He rails at Dean. Screaming all his bile out at his brother. The one place it doesn't belong. The one place it will do the least harm.

Sam's shouting, and shoving Dean. Throwing things.

This time Dean's not angry. And he's mostly sober.

This time, when Dean takes his belt off he does it slowly. Loop by loop.

His eyes shine bright in the dingy light of the motels lamps. His lips shine bright too.

Because it's been so long since... _this_ , Sam doesn't realize what's happening at first.

Dean waits patiently. Hands on his thighs, his belt folded over his legs.

Sam is too drunk to think about how wrong this is. How he should most definitely not be doing this.

Instead, he flops down over his brother's lap. He's too tall now for it to be graceful. He's too drunk for graceful anyway.

This time, Dean smacks him twenty-five times. Sam isn't so drunk that he can't keep track.

The first whip-crack of leather across his ass has his cock diamond hard. He doesn't know if Dean can feel it. He doesn't give a shit anyway.

After the fourth hit, his ass starts to tingle and throb. He can't help it, he moans.

He's not sure just how drunk he is anymore, but he swears he hears Dean moan too.

It happens again after the eighth lick. And again after the thirteenth.

There's no mirror this time, so he can't see Dean's face, and Sam is too worried to look up at his brother.

But slowly, Sam begins to notice something. It takes a bit to make it through his drunk-lust fugue.

Dean is hard too.

The realization hits Sam right in the gut and clears some of the cobwebs from his head.

He makes up his mind to try something.

If he's wrong about this, it will be so much worse than falling; it would be mutually assured destruction.

This time when he moans, he turns it into Dean's name.

He puts every drop of arousal coursing through his veins into the word, so there will be no mistaking it for anything it isn’t.

The amount of relief he feels when he hears Dean's murmured, "Fuck," is absurd.

The next time, he's even louder.

So is Dean.

Still, Sam wants to be sure. He needs to be sure. Because he can't live without this anymore, but he won't live without Dean. Though he's not sure he has the power to choose between the two anymore.

They're on the razors edge of something here, and Sam prays that he hasn't somehow misread the situation.

It's time for the belt to fall for the sixteenth time. When it connects, Sam cries out Dean's name, and his hips rock forward, and his engorged cock grinds against Dean's thigh.

"Sammy." The word rolls out of Dean's mouth covered in honey.

Then, he shoves Sam off of his lap.

Sam bounces to his feet and blinks down at Dean in horror. A sharp, crystal-edged certainty grinds in his bones, telling him that he's ruined everything.

Dean speaks, but Sam doesn't register the words.

A second time, softer, but still full of authority, Dean says, "Take your pants off."

Sam's pants are down before he even registers that he bent to do it.

He stands there, still as a frightened, wild thing, cock tenting his boxers.

"Those too," Dean whispers, gesturing. He's quiet, but the order is unmistakable.

Sam sways as arousal dumps adrenaline into his system, burning off the fading remains of the alcohol.

Time seems to have slowed to a crawl because Sam swears he lives and dies a hundred times in the handful of seconds it takes for him to get his boxers off.

He straightens and looks down at Dean, placid and pliable, waiting and wanting to be ordered around.

Dean's eyes are spring green and swimming with arousal, but his face betrays nothing: silky stone, peppered with freckles.

Dean's voice is quiet, but steady, "Get your ass in the air for me."

Sam is absurdly grateful that he can lay down now because all his blood is in his cock, and his head is spinning like a carousel on cocaine.

Jess had spanked Sam many times, with and without pants. None of those spankings even came close to the feeling of being half-naked on his big brother's lap, feeling Dean's wide leather belt lick over his skin. Dean's dick slides over Sam's ribs like a xylophone, and Dean's jeans rub Sam's cock deliciously raw.

Sam can't stand it anymore. He's dangerously close to coming, and he's not ready for this to end. The twenty fifth strike still stinging his blood red skin, and he's slipping off Dean's lap to kneel between his brothers knees. Sam's hands are trembling so much that he struggles with the button on Dean's jeans. Dean reaches down to casually pop the button open for Sam.

Sam has given his own share of blow jobs. Some were given freely to boys he knew from school. Others were given to pay off lost bets. Bets he purposely lost to tall, green-eyed strangers. Every man built for brutality, and every man looking as close to his brother as was possible after nature broke the mold making Dean Winchester.

On scabby knees in alleyways behind grungy bars, Sam worshipped at this shrine of savagery, taking from these not-quite-Deans something he dared not ask for from the real thing. Unfamiliar fingers yanking his hair, debasing him. Sometimes, he left with a black eye or bruised ribs, but he always left with jizz sloshing in his belly.

So, when Sam's shaky hands are able to wrangle Dean's zipper down, he chants, "Make you feel good, Dee. Make you feel so fucking good." Dean groans at the childhood nickname as Sam dips his hand into Dean's jeans to fish his cock out.

Sam thinks he's never seen a more beautiful dick in his whole life. He'd, of course, seen his brother naked before. You can't live out of each other's back pockets the way they did and avoid it, but he'd never seen Dean fully erect. His cock is long, thick, and gracefully straight. The head is dewy with precome and flushed purple. The shaft is red from being chafed and constricted in Dean's jeans.

Sam kisses the leaking tip with reverence before taking the fevered heat of it onto his tongue. He lets the taste of it fill his mouth, the smell of his brother strong in his nostrils, the weight heavy upon his tongue. His mouth floods with saliva that he uses to slick his way down the shaft. He wastes no time popping the swollen, thick head past his gag reflex.

Dean gives a guttural groan, followed by a ragged, "Sammy. Don't stop."

Dean's cunning fingers slip over his scalp to wind in his hair. They squeeze until the skin on Sam's head feels taut and itchy. He pulls Sam onto his dick roughly, until Sam's lips are tickled by the hair around the base of his brother's breathtaking cock. Dean holds him there until Sam's vision blooms dark around the edges, pulled off long enough to sputter in a breath and returned just as quickly. Dean repeats the action several times until he unwinds his fingers and gives Sam control over his head again.

Being deprived of air has made Sam feel floaty and warm, and he hums happily around Dean's cock.

"Mmm, Sammy," Dean groans. "Fuck that's good."

Something thumps to the floor next to Sam.

Dean's husky voice makes a demand, "Open yourself up for me." He lowers himself down on the mattress.

Sam looks down and sees a bottle of lube on the floor.

With a noise of cheery assent, Sam picks up the container. He draws himself into a squatting position as he coats his fingers with lube.

Dean has his fingers in Sam's hair again, not pulling this time, they're just settled on Sam's head, leaching warmth from wherever they touch, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Dean's hips rock in a rhythm counterpoint to the slippery slide of Sam's mouth over his shaft.

Sam trails cold fingers glazed with lube past his cock that twitches with his rushed pulse, behind his heavy balls, to circle his tight hole. He sinks two fingers into himself and a sound he didn't know he meant to make bubbles up from his chest. Dean doesn't hear the growled sound, but he feels it rumbling down his cock like one long, perfect peal of thunder.

Soon Sam is bouncing up and down on his slender fingers and bobbing his hot mouth vigorously over Dean's dick. He adds a third finger to his ass, and a sly little twist of his tongue around the tip of Dean's cockhead.

"Sammy! Fuck!" Dean barks, clamping his fingers around the base of his cock to keep himself from coming. "Get your ass up here," his growled command has Sam scrambling up onto the bed.

He flops his sweat-slick frame down onto the mattress, and Dean immediately crowds into his space. The older Winchester pins Sam's still teenage-trim frame to the bed, his big brother body bristles with muscles that Sam won't have for a few more years now. Sam strains up towards his brother, seeking Dean's mouth, craving a kiss from those soft, plump lips, desperate for the chance to count the splash of freckles sprinkled over Dean's cheeks while Dean claims what's always been his.

Dean stays just out of reach, his full lips twisted in a smirk. He presses his chest into his brother's, pinning Sam's bird-bone fragile rib cage against the mattress. Dean dips his head down to bite his way over the flushed skin of Sam's neck.

Sam's cock gives a twitch where it's trapped under his big brother's hip. A bright flash of pain from Dean's teeth over his jugular is soothed away with kisses punctuated with the exclamation point of Dean's tongue. A guttural grunt and a surge of hips, and Sam's begging Dean. Begging for kisses. Begging for more pain. Begging to be fucked. Begging for more, Dean, more.

As if the chanted pleas were what Dean was waiting for, he finally gives Sam the kiss he's begging for. Gently, he brushes his lips over Sam's. Greedily, Sam tries to accelerate the kiss, but he's helpless to resist his brother's pace. Sam would follow Dean to the ends of the earth. It's no different here. The eldest Winchester licks his way into Sam's mouth. Dean's lips are soft, and his tongue is rough, claiming his younger brother's mouth, dominating him with nothing more than a touch.

Sam is lost in the kiss when he feels Dean's strong hand squeezing his thigh, lifting his leg out of the way. Then, Dean's adroit fingers are pressing into Sam's sloppy-slick hole. Two fingers slip in past the second knuckle with no effort at all.

The calloused fingers Sam had so craved to have inside of him for so long, are there now. Buried in his twitching hole, rough pads teasing his prostate, making his muscles flutter and shudder, inside and out.

"Dean!" Sam cries, clutching his brother's biceps as his whole body arches off the bed, grinding his cock against Dean's hip.

"I gotcha, Sammy," Dean whispers roughly against his ear. "You want me to fuck you, baby boy?"

"God, Dean, yes," Sam says, sounding winded.

"You want me to split you open on my cock?" Dean says in a voice that is downright pornographic.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Sam pants, "Y-yes. Please."

"You want me to make it hurt, little brother?" Dean inquires with a hard nip on Sam's earlobe.

"Fuck, Dean, please!" Sam begs with a shout.

Dean's weight disappears in blink and just as quick, strong hands are flipping Sam over to his knees. Rough hands pull his bony hips up so his ass is in the air, rugged fingers tightly squeeze sore cheeks, baring his sloppy hole to the light.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean hisses a curse, pushing four fingers into Sam. "You're still so fucking tight. Gonna fill you up, baby boy."

Dean spreads his fingers wide, stretching Sam's hole. Lube dribbles out of Sam when he bears down on Dean's fingers. Dean swipes his cockhead over his brother's taint, collecting the runaway slick before pushing the thick crown into Sam's puffy hole alongside his fingers.

Sam cries out his brother's name with a sob, pushing himself back onto the intrusion, until Dean's pubic bone is grinding against him.

"Sammy. Fuck. You're so hot inside," Dean's voice is heavy with awe, his eyes fixed on the place where he disappears inside of his little brother. He wiggles and flexes his fingers against his crowded cock.

Sam curls his back with a thick groan. "Dee, move, please God."

He can't bear to take his fingers out of Sam, so he leaves them where they are, and thrusts into the cradle of his brother's body, fitting as much of himself into the tight space as he can. He starts slow, it's a lot for Sam to take, but he picks up the pace when Sam pushes back into him, pleading for more in a choked voice.

"Shit, Sammy. Fucking starving for it, aren't you, baby boy?" Dean teases with a groan.

"Shut up and fuck me, Dean," Sam barks.

With a growl Dean locks his free hand around the bony jut of Sam's hip and crashes into him. Sweat beads over his collarbones and his pulse thunders in his ears. The muscles in his thighs sizzle with exertion.

Dean pulls his fingers out of Sam's ass to clench his other hip with pulverizing strength. He barks out a curse when Sam's hole snaps tight around his dick.

Dean swears his little brother's asshole is tight enough to leave bruises on his cock. "Fuck, Sammy. So perfect for me," Dean praises. "So fucking tight. Scream so pretty. Beg me just right."

"Dean," Sam whines, "Please."

"What, baby boy?"

"Let me ride you, Dee," Sam pleads in his best good-boy whisper. "Make you feel so good, Dee, please."

Dean pulls out slowly and with a reluctant groan. Rolling onto his back, he curses the sheets for immediately clinging to his fevered, sweat-slick skin.

Sam doesn't waste time with letting Dean get settled, he's on top of his big brother in an instant. Slotting Dean's cock against his red-rimmed hole, he slides down, frictionless because of the amount of lube he shoved inside himself, until he can go no further.

Sam clenches his muscles around Dean's dick, making the elder Winchester curse with a hiss, and wrap his brutishly strong fingers around hips that are still boy-slender. Dean lifts the younger man’s body, letting him fall back onto the iron-hard jut of his cock.

Sam picks up the rhythm and starts bouncing himself over Dean's stout dick, rolling his hips pornographically. He clamps his hands over Dean's on his hips, pressing the older man's hands firmly to keep him from removing their crushing presence. Sam's head lolls back, his mouth open in a breathless "o" of ecstasy.

When Dean shows no sign of taking his bruising grip away, Sam's hands wander over his chest and down to his cock. He fists himself, squeezing his thick shaft, pre-come leaking onto his brothers firm stomach. His eyes drift close at the sensation, so it's a shock when his hand is slapped away from his dick.

"Don't touch," Dean growls, "If you can't come like this, Sammy, then you don't get to come at all." Dean seizes his wrists tightly and spreads his arms out to the side.

"Dee," Sam says, his voice thick with ecstasy, "I can't move like this."

"You let me worry about that," Dean replies gruffly. He slides his feet up so his legs are bent and his feet rest on the mattress. He's able to push up into Sam and keep his bruising grip on the younger mans outstretched arms.

The leverage is prefect, and Dean pounds into Sam. The blissful look on his brother's face makes Dean curse, "Shit, Sammy. You really like it like this, don't you?" Dean inquires, "You like it to hurt?"

Sam's fox-eyes blink open slowly, glassy and lust-blown, the hazel hue is kaleidoscopic in its intensity. He nods his head once. "Yeah, Dean. I do."

Dean searches his brother's reaction for a moment. He seems satisfied with what he sees, because he nods. He torques Sam's wrists, rotating his arms until his shoulder joints are straining in their sockets.

Sam's body goes rigid, and an inarticulate cry bursts from him as his orgasm overtakes him, striping Dean's chest and stomach with white-hot ribbons of come. He is almost incandescent with pleasure.

Sam collapses against Dean, spent from his orgasm, falling slack against his brother's chest, and Dean rolls over, taking Sam with him. Now, Sam is lying on his back, blissful and thoroughly gratified, and Dean is pressed tight against him. Pushing Sam's legs up against his chest, Dean pounds into his little brother, chasing his own bliss, riding the wave of contractions that still pulse around his dick and make Sam groan thickly with aftershocks and overstimulation.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy!" Dean wails when Sam clenches one last time. He sheathes himself in his little brother's needy insides and fills Sam with with wet heat, come squelching out around his twitching cock to dribble down Sam's crack.

Dean doesn't move until he's softened enough to pull out without making Sam whimper.

While he waits, he kisses Sam, gently praising his little brother, promising to take care of him, swearing to everything holy that he'll never leave his side, vowing to love Sammy no matter what ills befall them. They're the promises he's held in the most vital parts of his flesh and sinew ever since his mom and dad brought the tiny, swaddled bundle home from the hospital and laid his little brother in his lap. These promises all taste like the undying love of a Winchester.

He needed Sam to know these things. To never forget these things. He needed Sam to know a lot of other things, but there would be time for that later.

Dean flops down next to Sam, lifting the young man's head and setting it in the dip between his deltoid and pectoral muscle. Sam's ridiculous long hair is sweaty and matted and sticks to Dean's clammy skin. Sam hums contentedly when Dean's brilliant fingers brush his hair off his face.

Sam's fox-eyes search Dean's for any belated protest or disgust, but Dean's face is calm and content.

Sam clears his throat, "What about dad?" he asks reluctantly.

"What about him? We're in Maine, and he's in New Mexico. It's practically different planets," Dean shrugs.

"No. I mean, what if he finds out about... this?" Sam gestures between the two of them, still a bit unsure about what _this_ is, exactly.

"He won't. If it doesn't have yellow eyes he couldn't give a flying fuck," Dean scoffs.

"So, is _this_ okay?" Sam asks, holding his breath.

Dean rolls toward him, lifting up so Sam can see his face and read the unspoken thoughts there. Out loud, he says, "I meant what I said, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere. _This_? It's fine. But can we not get all movie-of-the-week about it?"

"Sure, Dean," Sam swallows thickly, "Sure." He chuckles, "I don't know if I'm going to be able to walk tomorrow. Did you find a job for us yet?"

"Nope," Dean comments, lips popping when he emphasizes the "p" sound.

"So what's the plan?" Sam asks, a crinkle forming between his eyebrows. "Are we just going to drive around until we find something?"

"Oh, Sammy. I paid for the room through the week," Dean gives him a wolfish grin, "I thought we could use some time off."


End file.
